


Beautiful, Fickle, Fatal

by MarieJacquelyn



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I like my monsters monstrous, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, It's still ya boy calm down, M/M, Monster jaskier, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Not Beta Read, future smut, horror and gore and monsters oh my, ish????, temporary character death?, the character death is in the first chapter don't panic, we fuck monsters like men, wow let's get some violence up in here y'all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:00:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25654801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarieJacquelyn/pseuds/MarieJacquelyn
Summary: Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, died in the same way he lived - dramatically. Or at least it would have been dramatic had anyone been around to witness his demise.As the morning sun broke across the horizon and illuminated the fog that hung across the surface of the river, a figure broke the surface and took its first long, pained breath.The man who held his wet shoes in one hand as he made his way towards Oxenfurt was not Julian Pankratz, although he would answer to that name until he fashioned one more appropriate for himself. He had all the time in the world, after all.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 164
Kudos: 428
Collections: The Witcher Alternate Universes





	1. Prologue

_ Prologue _

Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, died in the same way he lived - dramatically. 

Or at least it would have been dramatic had anyone been around to witness his demise. His self-styled friends, a band of young aristocratic idiots who were just as fond of getting into trouble as he was, had moved further down the bank of the Pontar, bottles of wine clutched in their hands and fisstech burning their gums. They were invincible tonight - young, monied, and stupid enough to think that the world would be theirs. Their diplomas rested back on their night tables in the dorms of Oxenfurt and several of them, Julian included, had been offered positions as assistant professors. 

The future was bright and the midnight lights of Oxenfurt gleamed on the waters of the Pontar like fireworks.

Julian Pankratz didn’t see those lights. 

An hour ago he had danced on the shore with his crew, their shoes cast aside in favor of bare feet in the cold, cold river. The water shock was a delight to their befuddled senses. Half out of his mind with good wine and drugs, Julian had spun and laughed and declared that he would become the best bard known in history. His friends had laughed and laughed and laughed and he had laughed with them, his joy consuming him until tears ran down his cheeks. He’d barely noticed when his bare feet found a patch of slick mud and he went tumbling back into the water. The laughter had continued and he smiled and let himself float in the black, cold water, his arms outstretched. 

They were young and invincible after all. 

No one saw the webbed hands that reached up and caught him by the throat.

If anyone heard the splash as he was dragged underwater, it was attributed to fish. 

The water muffled his frantic thrashing as the drowner dragged him down, down, down. He clawed at the hands around his neck, kicked at the second pair that fastened around his ankles, and screamed when a set of razor-sharp teeth sank into the meat where his neck met his shoulder. The bubbles of his final breath floated up and away into the darkness, bursting in the bright Oxenfurt lights. 

No one saw. 

No one would even remember to look for him for hours to come. 

Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, died alone in the cold, dark waters of the Pontar. 

Some hours later when the first of the beachcombers began to make their way down to the shore to look for mollusks and shells, they would instead find a grizzly surprise - a shore stained with red and black blood and the mutilated corpses of three drowners. They lay in the mud, enormous chunks of their bodies having been bitten out, and a sticky black ichor bleeding from their mouths. 

But before that, as the morning sun broke across the horizon and illuminated the fog that hung across the surface of the river, a figure broke the surface and took its first long, pained breath. It swam for the shore with short strokes and stumbled when its bare feet hit the mud and it was able to stand. Its clothes hung off of it in tatters, revealing multiple sets of old, glossy scars where teeth had dug into its flesh. It shook its head in a manner more akin to a wet hound, spraying water from its soft brown hair. 

“Ahh,” it sighed as it took its first steps on the shore and collected the shoes that waited there. It licked its lips and tasted the waters of the Pontar, relishing the murky flavor. “ _The delight of words - to lie heavy on my tongue, fill my mouth, and choke my lungs._ ” 

The man who held his wet shoes in one hand as he made his way towards Oxenfurt was not Julian Alfred Pankratz, although he would answer to that name until he fashioned one more appropriate for himself. He had all the time in the world, after all. 


	2. Funeral Costs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning - Gore and Horror

As the story went (depending on who one asked), Jaskier and Geralt of Rivia first met in a crowded pub in Posada. There, it was to be understood, Jaskier decided that Geralt was to be his muse and trailed after the Witcher during his contract to rid the town of a so-called devil. In the break between being tormented by drakes, imps, and other such were-beasts as the locals called them, the people of Posada took it upon themselves to contract out Geralt to rid them of the pest that had been stealing from the food stores and fields. 

It wasn’t the most glamorous of jobs, nor did it pay particularly well, but as far as Geralt figured it was good enough to get him out of the pub (which smelled just as bad as it looked) and away from the very odd bard who had taken just as odd of a shine to him. 

Sadly said bard also figured that it was in his best interests to attach himself to Geralt like a brightly-dressed leech and proceeded to talk his ear off for the three hours it took them to make their way into the foothills around Posasa. 

That wasn’t the first time Geralt had contemplated cold-blooded murder, but it was most certainly the closest he’d come to following through on the compulsion. The only thing that saved the bard from Geralt’s ever-growing aggravation was that there wasn’t really anywhere to stash his corpse along the road. 

This was the story that Geralt told when asked how he’d acquired the tumor-like growth named Jaskier. It was usually punctuated by an assortment of growls, eye rolls, and faint ‘ _stop telling people I’m a leech in human clothes_ ’ from the bard in the background. He usually ignored those, except for the one time that Jaskier ‘accidentally’ poured most of his beer onto Geralt’s lap. He spent most of the next three days smelling like an alcoholic until the next rain storm washed the smell out of his clothes. 

In reality that meeting was nowhere close to their first encounter, although only Jaskier was privy to that particular secret for some time. It rested under his tongue and it in the dark part of his heart - where he kept everything that made him ‘wrong’. He hid it with pretty words and wild flirting and a ridiculous enough persona that Geralt never looked at him closely enough to suspect that anything of substance lay beneath it. 

When the nights grew cold and they, lacking coin for whatever reason, took shelter in any abandoned building presented itself, Jaskier would often find himself lying awake and staring at the holes in the ceiling. It wasn’t that they were familiar or that he enjoyed roughing it (which he voiced loudly and with as much disdain as he possibly could whenever they bedded down in a place like this), nor was he afraid of any of their potential occupants. If the Witcher snoring next to him wasn’t enough to put off any would-be assailants, Jaskier would certainly be. Monsters and beasts of a certain caliber had a good sense for when there was a predator worse than themselves about, after all. 

No, he would lie awake and listen to the rain or the wind and _remember._

~ * * * ~

Geralt had only been on the Path for a scant three years and acquired exactly twelve new scars in that time when he took the contract. The shadows under his eyes weren’t as pronounced, nor were the lines around his mouth from scowling. The swords strapped to his back were honed to a fine edge and shone, free from any drop of blood or mud. They were a stark contrast to the state of his armor and his boots, one of which had acquired a small rock in it that managed to somehow roll under his heel with every damn step he took. Sadly the suspicious glares and soft curses that he was receiving on every side as he made his way through Ursten kept him from stopping and taking the time to wrestle with his shoe. 

A storm was brewing overhead and the air felt thick and heavy as the first peal of thunder rolled through. 

There was a contract folded up in the pocket of his undertunic, calling for some hero or monster-slayer to lend aid to a local lordling in return for a large purse of coin. Large enough in fact, to fund Geralt all the way back to Kaer Morhen for the winter and keep him well-fed along the way. His mouth had nearly forgotten the taste of anything that wasn’t wild game and roots roasted in his campfires. 

_“Help Wanted - “_ The contract read. _“Terrible Beast has taken up residence in Lord Westshild’s stables and killed his Prize Horses. Reward offered in the sum of 500 Nobles to slaughter it and deliver its Head. Please report directly to the Lord’s Stewart for instructions. No funeral expenses offered in event of Death by Beast.”_

Geralt couldn’t help but wonder exactly how many folk had died attempting to flush out whatever was in the lord’s barn to warrant that last part. 

The shouting reached him long before he arrived in the courtyard, though there were enough voices and the sound of hysterical crying that it was hard to make out the exact words. There was definitely quite a lot of noise about something _growing,_ which was never good in his humble opinion. He’d fought an archaespore once and spent the next three days dealing with the prickling red rash its thrashing vines had left behind. It wasn’t exactly an experience he was eager to repeat. 

Geralt stood in the gate, the rock in his shoe totally forgotten as he watched the scene within. 

A small crowd had formed outside of the building, which looked large enough to house a dozen horses and an impressive tack room on a good day. Five men were standing about a hundred feet from the open door of the building, all gesturing wildly and struggling to be heard over each other. Two of them clutched swords and were dressed in well-polished silver armor. Two women, one all but holding up the other, were crying next to a crumpled body that seemed to be wearing armor similar to the other two knights, although it was hard to tell. 

After taking a moment to compose himself, Geralt strode forward towards the cluster of people. A mousey-looking man in glasses was the first to see his approach and a sharply hissed ‘My Lord’ ensured that the rest of them quickly took notice as well. The two knights had furious expressions and one of them had a spray of something dark and sticky-looking across his helmet and breastplate. Both of them looked about ready to turn on their heels and leave as Geralt approached, but knightly courtesy or some other such nonsense must have kept them in place as the Witcher joined the group.

“This your contract?” He asked, his voice rough from disuse as he pulled the parchment free and shook it open. “Terrible Beast in the stables?” 

A short man with a barrel chest and an unfortunate mustache stepped forward, his hand outstretched. Geralt stared at it until he dropped it again, flushing around his cheeks and thick neck. “Yes, yes it is. Thank you for coming, Witcher. I am Lord Hersh Westshild and I put out the contract. If you can fulfill it, I am prepared to raise my offer to six hundred nobles.” 

The armored men both gasped in outrage. “Six?!” Cried the taller of the two. “You offer this beast six hundred nobles but refuse to offer a single noble for us to bring home to our companion’s widow?” 

“Should’ve thought of that before he chose to go in first, shouldn’t he have?” The lord snarled, looking more than a little finished with the two. “I told you - if I paid out for every damn funeral that thing has caused, I’d be in the poor house. Now take your corpse and be off with you! Unless you’d like another shot at the thrice-damned thing? I’ll make you the same offer I did to the Witcher!” 

Geralt found himself on the receiving end of two fiery glares and kept his expression unconcerned, even as the one who had cried out leaned forward and spat onto the ground in front of his boots.

“No,” the knight ground out. “We must carry word back to Ledrane’s family. We will not trouble ourselves with you or your creature any longer.” 

Geralt got the distinct impression in that moment that they were talking about him rather than the monster in the barn, but refused to rise to the bait. He had little enough patience as it was and testing it in a battle of insults with the men would only lead to one place - a fight that he definitely wouldn’t be paid for. 

He and the remainder of the party watched as the two knights tucked their arms under their dead companion’s shoulders and began to slowly drag him from the courtyard. The corpse’s armored boots left ruts in the soft dirt like narrow cart tracks and the black ichor that he was drenched in quickly filled them up. Only once they were out of sight did Geralt turn his attention back to the remaining three men. The women who had stood over the body had retreated somewhat and were now resting in the shade of a tree closer to the lord’s house, still clutching at each other for support or comfort.

“So what is it?” Geralt asked, seeing no point in dealing with the niceties. 

The lord sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Believe me you, Witcher, I would tell you if I knew. I have seen several monsters in my time - even a water hag! But this? This is a nightmare.” All of them turned to regard the barn and Geralt got his first proper look at it. 

It was _dripping._

Most of the building had been consumed by a thick black ichor that gleamed with a rainbow of sickly-looking colors. It smelled like decomposing plants and salt and something heavy that sat on the back of Geralt’s tongue like rotting meat. The black had consumed the building all the way up to the roof of the hayloft, splashing out of the open windows and then condensing back into itself. As he watched, the entire mass quivered and shook like it was drawing a pained breath and Geralt had to force himself not to take a step backwards. 

That was certainly new and most definitely not something he’d ever read about in any of the books at Kaer Morhen. 

“How long has it been like this?” Geralt asked, already starting to regret taking the contract. The smell alone was enough to make him want to turn and walk in the other direction until he forgot all about this. 

“About two weeks?” The lord said, sounding unsure. “Wasn’t this bad at first. Just one stall. Whatever it was got in and killed my newest stallion - a beautiful black that my huntsman caught wild down in the marshes. Can you believe that? Beast was going to win me every race on the Continent once it was broken. Guess it must be all melted now, like the rest. Any time someone got close enough to get a sword in, it would shoot out these,” the man’s hands flapped in front of him as he struggled to describe the horror. “These _tentacles._ Like some sort of ocean creature. Folk would scream, it would drag ‘em in, and if they were lucky it’d spit them out again after they were dead like that knight there. Mostly they just didn’t come out again.”

Geralt permitted himself a very small grimace. His potion stores were low enough as it was and he couldn’t think of anything that might help him against _tentacles_. That just wasn’t specific enough to have warranted its own potion being created. 

The first fat drops of the storm began to pelt the ground around them, mixing in with the ichor and making it drip even faster. 

“Fine,” Geralt said through clenched teeth. “Six hundred nobles and I’ll get rid of it.”

“And no funeral costs,” the man with the glasses said hurriedly. 

“And no funeral costs,” Geralt agreed. It wasn’t as though he had anyone in the area who would care enough to bury him after all.

He rifled in his bag as he approached the building and pulled out his last Cat and a Golden Oriole, yanking the stoppers out of both and downing them in one go. It hit his belly like a punch and burned his throat the whole way down, and that didn’t even factor in the taste. Thank fuck they were alcohol-based and that helped to balance out the other ingredients a little bit. A very little. It still boiled in his stomach like fire, its toxic cost making itself immediately known even as his pupils blew wide to soak in every tiny bit of light available. 

Geralt stepped forward and set a single foot into the ichor.

The black liquid swirled around his boots and he watched it as it tried to crawl up as far as his ankles, feeling at the buckles with tiny strands. Even when he lifted his foot to free himself with a wet-sounding _squelch_ it seemed to be reaching for his foot. Three more similar steps brought him as far as the open door of the barn and he peered inside, letting the ooze fondle his boots while he peered inside.

The inside of the barn seemed to be in much the same state as the outside. Every wall was coated in black sludge. It dripped from every crack in the ceiling and trailed through every door and horse stall. There was barely an inch of untouched wood to be seen, and even the spaces that were clear had seemed to have soaked up the liquid to the point where they turned black. His mind raced, flipping through page after page of the bestiaries that he had soaked up like a sponge, trying to figure out exactly what he was dealing with here. Whatever this creature was, it had either established a den here or was holding up because it was injured. There was no other reason for a monster to remain so long in a place where it was being constantly threatened.

His hand lingered near the hilts of his swords, but he didn’t draw them yet. If the thing had immediately attacked when confronted with a blade, then he wanted to buy himself as much time as he could before it struck. A few more seconds could be the difference between instant death and finding a weak spot. 

Geralt walked until he stood in the middle of the barn, potion-enhanced eyes sweeping over the place as he looked for the main body of the creature through its excretions. It had to have some sort of control over the stuff if it could send out tentacles (again, he shuddered at the word) of it, but so far none had come forth. It still tugged at his boots, the buckles clicking as the tendrils lifted and felt at them and that was when Geralt knelt to get a closer look at the stuff. The Golden Oriole would keep him safe if it was toxic, but it didn’t smell like any poison he’d ever come across. He tugged his glove off with his teeth and let his bare fingers hang in the stuff, letting the rest of his senses come to high alert in case the creature took this opportunity to strike. 

The slime was cool to the touch and had a slight give to it, like dipping his fingers into bog moss. The moment his skin touched it the surrounding few inches of the stuff seemed to grow agitated. Small feelers climbed up his hand, probing at his palm and his wrist bone. It touched his skin and slicked the hand on the back of his knuckles and Geralt watched it in fascination. It was discovering his hand like a child presented with a gift that it couldn’t figure out how to unwrap.

“Alright,” he rumbled, knowing that the sound could possibly stir the thing to attack. He was fairly confident he could get a Quen shield up in time if it decided to. “So you can either sense through this stuff or it's a part of you.” He kept his voice soft and as threat-free as he could. He rubbed his thumb across the ichor as it slicked his palm, spreading it around. The rotting meat taste was starting to fade from his tongue somewhat, chased away by the vile taste of his potions and the growing moisture in the air from the rain outside. All sound felt like it had been muffled, like a pillow pressing over his ears.

“You can’t stay here,” he said gently. “They’ll just keep sending people with swords in after you. Eventually one of them will get lucky and then you’ll be dead. I don’t think you want that.” 

If the thing was intelligent, maybe he could make it see reason. Sometimes that was the easiest thing to do - draw it out for a clean strike or convince it to pack up and leave entirely. It wasn’t completely unheard of for Witchers to convince monsters to move on, though it was more likely to happen with dopplers and succubi rather than unidentified sludge monsters. 

A soft sound beyond the nonstop thick dripping caught his attention and Geralt’s attention snapped away from the ichor that was still playing with his bare hand. A soft, keening moan was sounding from the furthest stall, so soft that if his senses hadn’t been so heightened he might have missed it. As he rose he gently shook the last of the slime from his hand, letting it fall back into the living mass with a _plop._ The skin it had touched was stained as if by blackberry juice, but he paid it little mind as he tugged his glove back on and began to make his way towards the back of the building, his curiosity growing just as quickly as his trepidation. 

What sort of Witcher approached an unknown threat without his sword drawn? Besides Eskel of course, but of course Eskel had enough magic packed into him to bring down most of a city with a single well-placed Igni. That wasn’t the case with Geralt, but he still had his hands at the ready as he sloshed his way over, either to cast a sign or reach for a blade. 

His first glance over the wall of the stall quickly helped him to decide. A horse body lay inside, most of it obscured by the ichor. It lay on its side, pronounced ribs visible through its still sides, its coat nearly the same color as the slime. 

No, Geralt realized. Not almost - exactly the same color. 

“Shhh,” he said softly. Either he was talking to a corpse or his hunch about the thing only being here because it was injured was about to prove itself correct. “It’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you.” 

The body shifted slightly, dragging through the muck and Geralt almost backed up again. The slime was pouring off of the thing, sweating through its skin in waves and he was fairly certain that a large portion of the horse was _made_ of the slime rather than just a body coated in it. The stuff dripped out of its mane and as its legs shifted Geralt realized that its hooves were cloven.

 _The horse that the huntsman caught?_ He wondered. Either something had possessed the poor beast and had driven it to this sorry state, or the huntsman had had no idea exactly what he had dragged back to the stables. 

Slime clutched at his hand again as he pulled the stall door open. “I’m not going to hurt you. Let me help,” he said, pitching his voice low as he usually did when he could afford a horse. “Let’s see what you’ve got keeping you here, eh?” A few steps brought him to the horse’s unmoving side and he crouched down, knowing that it was going to take _weeks_ to scrub all of the excretions out of his boots and armor. “Either I can help you out or I’m about to die the stupidest death a Witcher has ever had. Hope they don’t write about this in the history books.” 

Geralt reached out, pulling away thick ropes of slime and sticky, matted mane. It clung to his hand and closer inspection revealed that more than a little of it seemed to have leaves or fronds. _A nature spirit?_ He wondered as he cleared more of the stuff away from the creature’s head. It would make sense for it to have been found near the water in that case, but no monster he’d ever heard of had a description like this. He would definitely have to pick Vesemir’s brain if he ever made it back to Kaer Morhen. 

The body next to him gave a great, shuddering sigh and the building around him creaked as it was echoed through the ichor. 

“There we are,” he murmured as he finally cleared away the last of the mess clinging to the beast’s head. Geralt had seen a great many unpleasant sights in his handful of years on the road, but this had shot instantly to the number one place. Some fool had bridled the horse at some point and everywhere that metal touched flesh, it had eaten straight through the skin and into the muscle beneath. More than half of the creature’s head had been reduced to a complete skeleton, with bladed teeth showing through a lipless mouth and a single dark eye rolling in a lidless socket. The eye fixed on Geralt as he revealed it, darting from his hands to the swords on his back. 

Geralt made more soothing noises as he eyed the bridle. It looked to be of normal make, but the buckle was so tangled up in the creature’s hair and fronds that there was no way he’d be able to reach it. “I need to cut this off. You understand?” He asked. “I want to help. I’m going to reach for my knife, but just to cut this off.” He stroked one of the few undamaged parts of the beast’s head, a soft, sticky spot just under its jaw and the monster’s side shuddered again. The whole barn creaked loudly enough the Geralt glanced up, wondering if it was about to come down on top of him. 

The blade he usually reserved for cutting off the heads of contract beasts was sheathed at his waist and the few inches of movement it took to reach for it felt like miles. To his Cat eyes, the blade seemed to flash bright as daylight as lightning struck outside, but the beast didn’t move as he pulled it free. A few tendrils of black slime reached up to wrap around his wrist, tugging fitfully. Either it was too weak to put up a fight after dealing with the dead knight or it had understood that his intentions were to help rather than harm. Whichever it was, Geralt found his movements unchallenged as he carefully brought his fingers between the leather part of the bridle and lifted it free of the horse’s horrifically damaged face. The dagger slid into that space without touching the bone beneath and Geralt began to carefully saw, his eyes fixed on the slowly fraying leather. 

Leather parted and he was able to lift away a fraction of the bridle, grimacing as the metal tried to cling to what was left of the ruined flesh. The exposed eye didn’t once leave his face as he worked, cutting and lifting for long minutes until he’d cleared away pieces until all that was left was the bit. “I’m sorry,” he apologized to the creature as he lifted its heavy muzzle and eyed the piece of metal jammed between its teeth. Each tooth was as long as the first and second parts of his longest finger and sharp enough to rival the blade in his hand. Geralt tried to turn the head so that the jaw would fall open and release the bit, but realized when that yielded no results that the metal must have welded itself to its tongue. 

Most definitely the stupidest Witcher in history, he berated himself as he started to work his fingers into the beast’s mouth. It didn’t snap shut like a trap, but neither did it aid him as he tried to reach for the bit. The tips of its teeth instantly pierced through his gloves and dragged across his skin, drawing blood. 

The bit made a horrible tearing sound when he finally got his fingers around it and pulled it free and Geralt wasn’t sure if it was the sight before him or the mixed potions in his stomach that made him want to throw up more. 

The moment the last of the bridle was gone the monster sighed again and Geralt only barely contained his yelp as the entire creature gave an enormous shudder and _melted._ Skin poured off muscle, muscle sloughed off bones, bones turned black and shivered before splashing away to nothing. Every drop of ichor clinging to the barn went limp and began to pour down onto his head like a waterfall, drenching him, filling his mouth, and blinding him even with the Cat. He scrambled to his feet and fought his way back to the barn door, struggling to breathe as the stuff clogged his lungs. He hit the walls once, twice before he found the opening and tumbled through it and into the rain-drenched dirt beyond. 

There he lay, panting, faintly hearing the sound of people shouting from somewhere in the distance and the terrible sound of cracking wood as the barn gave way completely and collapsed into a pile of stained, wet splinters.

 _Never telling anyone about this,_ he silently promised himself as he let the rain fall on his face and gasped for breath. He’d never live it down. 

Several days later, long after collecting his coin from the lord and putting as much distance as he could between himself and Ursten, Geralt awoke at his camp along the riverbank and found the well-chewed corpses of two drowners and a pile of roach fish gleaming in the sun lying next to the coals of his still-warm campfire. There was a trail of cloven equine tracks leading from the river to his camp and back again. 

He didn't camp near any bodies of water for some time after that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: *Googles synonyms for 'Ichor'*  
> Me: ...  
> Me: I am NOT using puss.  
> Also I'm definitely writing Geralt as a mix of Wild Hunt and Netflix. Leaning harder on WH Geralt just because he's FUNNY, Y'ALL.  
> ((Step 1: Save monster  
> Step 2: Fish???  
> Step 3: Husband??????????))


	3. A Round or Three

“Why does every bandit seem to have the exact same type of ham sandwich stashed in their pocket? It’s either a ham sandwich or an onion - every time! Do you think that there’s some sort of ‘bandits only’ sandwich shop hidden away where only ruffians can find it?” Jaskier unwrapped the sandwich from the rough packaging and took a bite before making a face. “And another thing! They’re all dreadful. No mustard, no greens, not even cheese! Just dry, stale bread and cured ham. Surely this place must be called Bad Sandwiches for Bad Lads. They must make more selling these rubbish things than the local lord does from taxes.” 

The bard was perched on a fallen log, sandwich in hand as he watched his Witcher rifle through the pockets of the handful of idiots who had thought that ambushing the two of them on the road was a grand idea. Clearly they hadn’t had enough brains between the lot of them to realize that a man with two swords, a large and bite-happy horse, and biceps that would make a minotaur jealous might not make the best target. 

Now their guts were spread out across the underbrush, Geralt had picked up a rather fetching splash of blood across his face and the front of his armor, and Jaskier had a sandwich. 

“I don’t even like ham,” he said mournfully, looking down at what was probably his lunch. “Have you ever thought about retiring and opening a sandwich shop, Geralt? No doubt we could do loads better than this, despite the fact that neither of us can cook.” 

“I can cook,” Geralt said, managing to sound slightly insulted even with his usual lack of inflection. He found a pouch on the belt of one of the bandits and tossed it to Jaskier, who promptly dropped his sandwich in the dirt to catch it. “And who doesn’t like ham?”

“Some of us have more cultured taste buds than the average peasant. Ham tastes like fat and lost dreams. Give me a nice piece of flaky cod on some chopped potatoes and a pinch of salt and garlic over the whole thing…” He trailed off dreamily, giving the ham a little kick to push it further away from him. “But I doubt we’ll be having much of that any time soon, considering your aversion to anything that resembles polite society. Why aren’t we going to Novigrad again? They have about a hundred parties every night this time of year and I could make more playing at a few of those than you could in a year of chopping off griffin heads and picking the pockets of bandits.” 

“It’s only pick pocketing if they’re still alive while you do it.” 

“Of course you’d only pay attention to that part.” Jaskier shook his head as he turned the bag upside down to disgorge its contents onto his lap. A handful of copper coins, half an onion (of course), a little folding knife that he promptly slid into the top of his boot for safe keeping, and a small package of cards tied together with twine to keep them in a deck. He undid the string around them and tossed it away, sorting through the cards while Geralt finished divesting the men of anything worth keeping. They rarely had much - war and famine seemed to have driven half of the country to new and more violent occupations. It seemed as though a full half of the contracts that Geralt ended up collecting these days ended up being camps full of bandits that had been terrorizing the local population and using drowners as a cover story.

Luckily Geralt didn’t seem to have many qualms about dealing with the bandits in the same manner as the drowners, though he usually gave the men a chance to surrender before he set to work with his steel sword. Jaskier could remember exactly two instances when the men had actually taken him up on that offer and the rest had ended in exactly the manner that was now spread out at his feet, bleeding sluggishly over the toes of his shoes. 

Geralt fished his sword kit out of the bag on Roach’s side and slumped onto the log next to Jaskier. “In my experience, most people would either be screaming or crying about now.”

“Would you like me too?” Jaskier asked, taking a bite of the onion as if it were an apple. “I’ve been told that I cry very prettily. Just give me a moment.” He took a deep breath and contorted his face, letting his eyes sag open widely and breathing through his nose. 

“I didn’t say that, I just meant -”

“No no, hold on I’m nearly there.” Jaskier held up a hand to silence his companion and then turned to look at him. “Geralt...those were _people._ And you killed them like they were _animals._ ” A single tear worked its way free of his lashes as he gazed as the Witcher and he let it roll down his cheek. “How could you? You’re a _monster, Geralt._ ”

Geralt sat frozen on the log next to him, staring at the tear as it clung to Jaskier’s chin and then slowly dripped onto the onion that he was still clutching. His mouth was open, frozen on words that suddenly wouldn’t come.

“And if you hadn’t killed them, I’m fairly certain that they would have been more than happy to slit both of our throats, sell all of our belongings, and continue on their merry bad-sandwich-eating way without a single pang of guilt.” He shook his head, letting his hair flop about a bit and scrubbed the wetness off of his cheek with his wrist. “See? No runny nose, no red eyes. I’m a master of the dramatic arts. My entire college experience has been leading to this moment! Onion?” He offered the snack to Geralt, whose expression made the extremely minimal shift from alarmed to irritated. 

“No,” He grunted, giving Jaskier the cold shoulder as he set to the messy work of cleaning the blood and viscera off his sword. 

“Oh come on, don’t be mad. You know I didn’t mean a word of it.” He popped another piece of onion into his mouth and chewed noisily. “And besides, you hear that every other day. I’d have to be much more creative if I really wanted to get under your skin. Which I don’t, just so you know. It’s far too muscley in there for me to fit, for one thing.” Jaskier finished his onion and started flipped through the card deck again. “Why does everyone around here insist on playing with the Northern Realms deck? It might be riddled with siege weapons, but one Torrential Rain and that’s a whole round wasted. Ooh, Prince Stennis. Very nice.” 

“Are those Gwent cards?” Geralt asked with interest, seeming to forget that he’d been sulking.

“No Geralt, they’re ‘learning shapes and colors’ cards. Is there any other card game in the whole of the continent? Everyone and their mother plays Gwent, you know that. Do you want Crinfrid Reavers? I’ve already got three of him and that’s all I can have in my deck.” 

Geralt set his still bloody sword aside and accepted the card offered to him. “I think I’ve got one or two. Another can’t hurt.” 

“You’d better count them. First time you try to lay four down on the table you’re liable to get stabbed. But if you need one more I’m happy to lend you mine. I’m a monster deck man, myself.” 

“Monster deck?” Geralt’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”

“Don’t laugh,” Jaskier crossed his arms. “I used to have the best Nilfgaard pack in all of Oxenfurt, but they got wet after I graduated and they all melted. All those lovely spy cards,” he sighed mournfully, “washed down the Pontar. In any event, I’m building back up my decks now. They’re nothing to write home about, but good enough to win a few coins. We should have a round or three next time we’re somewhere civilized!” 

~ * * * ~

Three days and a contract for six slaughtered nekkers later found Geralt and Jaskier sitting across from each other at the back table of a local inn, each with a mug of beer at their elbow and plates empty of anything but chicken bones. 

“Geralt…” 

“Don’t say it,” the Witcher snapped, glowering down at his hand of cards. 

“I feel like I must, because if I don’t I’ll probably pop. You must be the _worst_ Gwent player I’ve ever had the dubious pleasure of playing.”

“Jaskier.”

The bard was not to be stopped now that he’d started. “It’s a good thing we weren’t playing strip Gwent, otherwise you’d be showing off all of your favors, whether we want to see them or not! If we’d been playing for anything more than peanuts, you wouldn’t have a cent left to your name and I’d own Roach by now. That’s how bad you are.”

“ _Jaskier.”_

Jaskier was starting to laugh now. “You scorched your own trebuchet, Geralt! Twice! Who does that?”

“I’m not very good with the numbers,” Geralt grumbled, sinking down lower in his seat and dragging his beer in front of him so that he could all but hide his face in it.

“You’re not good with numbers in the same way that I’m not very good at flying, Geralt. This wasn’t even a victory, this was just pathetic. You even have a good deck! Look, you’ve got Letho of Gulet and three Young Emissaries and you _still_ lost by almost fifty points.” Jaskier took a drink of his own beer and smacked his lips loudly, relishing the yeasty flavor. “Perhaps it’s fate. You’re so good at doing everything else - fighting, hunting, brewing those noxious potions, bedding women…”

Geralt let his forehead meet the table and smacked it there a couple of times for good measure.

“If you were good at cards too, you’d be far too perfect for the rest of us mortals and I’d be forced to do something drastic.” 

“Like what?” Geralt asked into the stained wood. 

Jaskier tilted his stool onto its back legs and balanced there with his legs crossed, considering. “I would think of something. You can’t expect me to ruin someone’s reputation beyond repairing without even an hour to plot it out. I’m excellent at improvisation but not so much at revenge. I’m much too good natured for that.” 

“I’m saved.” Geralt’s expression was deadpan as he sat up and used a chicken bone to pick a piece of their long since devoured dinner out of his teeth. 

“But seriously Geralt, who taught you to play? A blind man who had never seen a deck of cards in his life? There’s no other explanation for being this dreadful, even your claim to be bad with numbers.” Jaskier let his stool legs clunk back down to the rushes and leaned forward on his elbows. “Surely there must be a story there. The one failing of the great White Wolf of Rivia.”

“I have more than one failing and there’s no story,” Geralt said, refusing to be baited. His eyes slowly slid over to the dark window near their table. The curtains had yet to be drawn and he could just make out the faint pinpricks of light that were fireflies drifting over the fields. It was a warm night, the air thick and humid. The kind of night where monsters of every kind came out of their burrows and caves to prowl. 

A night like the one when he’d first begun to learn Gwent and his own personal monster had come calling.

~ * * * ~

“No lad, you can’t revive a hero card with your healer. Once they’re dead, they’re gone and done with.” 

“That seems counterproductive,” Geralt said, his brow furrowing as he stared down at the cards spread out between him and the old huntsman who sat across from him. “What’s the point of them being heroes if they can’t be more versatile?” 

The man sniffled loudly and then spat onto the floor next to him. “Dunno, I weren’t the one that made the rules, was I? Just the way it is.”

Geralt had been a Witcher for four years now and had two new scars on top of his last twelve. One of them was a neat row of teeth marks around the base of his thumb from where an endrega had attempted to bite the digit off. It still itched, much to Geralt’s displeasure. Pain he could handle. Itching? That was enough to drive anyone to madness. 

He was playing with a deck he’d borrowed from Eskel over the winter - the art on it was so badly painted that he wouldn’t have been able to tell who was pictured on the cards without their titles proclaiming their identity. “Do new hero cards come out as the others die?” He wondered aloud, flipping over one of the cards that pictured a kilted man with an enormous red beard wrestling with an actual bear. 

“You sure ask a lot of weird questions,” the huntsman said.

“Oi!” Shouted a very wet man as he stepped through the front door, shaking water off like a soggy dog. “Somebody’s horse got loose. If that’s your mare, go fetch it and stick it back in the barn before it runs off in this mess.” 

All heads turned to look at where the man was gesturing towards one of the bar windows. It was dark as pitch outside, the air full of fog and wet from the rain that had been coming down nearly nonstop for the last week. Foglets had been running rampant, using the weather as the perfect cover to sneak into little villages to slaughter sheep and anyone foolish enough to be caught outside. Geralt had arrived just in time to save the mayor’s nephew from the clutches of one of the creatures and also in time to see the spring floods rise high enough to cover over the bridge north. In lieu of pay he’d accepted a free room and a meal a day at the local pub until the bridge cleared, both of which he’d been grateful for. 

If there was one thing he hated even more than itching, it was sleeping in wet clothes. A roof over his head to protect him from the deluge was much better than a slightly heavier purse at the moment. 

“What horse?” One of the other patrons asked. “No nag of mine would be caught dead out in this shit.”

“You ain’t got no nags, Ned. All you’ve got is two skinny goats and one of ‘ems your wife!”

“Shattup Braum!”

Geralt’s eyes were fixed on the window. There was indeed a horse outside, though he was probably one of the few who could actually see the beast through the gloom. It was standing outside of the pub with its face barely a foot from the window as it stared inside, the light from the candles flickering in its large, dark eyes. Its gaze locked with Geralt’s and he felt his slow heart clench. The horse blinked slowly, its breath fogging up the glass before it stepped away and vanished from sight. 

“That’s...I’ll deal with it,” he said as he rose, his cards forgotten on the table. 

He hadn’t camped by a river since last autumn. He’d avoided the one that ran outside of the walls of Kaer Morhen all winter, until the other wolves began to tease him about his sudden dislike of running water. Even the ice that crusted over the surface of the water hadn’t settled him enough to tempt him closer. Every time he so much as glanced at the rushing water from the top of the fortress walls he’d been teleported back to that damn barn - with ichor pouring off his hands and the roof coming down on his head while a skeletal horse head leered at him before melting to nothing. 

At least he had a name to give the creature now - a kelpie. 

It hadn’t been more than a footnote in the book ‘Far Southern Beasts of Myth and Legend’, a rarely-touched tome in the great library of Kaer Morhen. Few wolves traveled further south than Toussaint these days, and the creatures of that area rarely came up so far as to tempt that particular school. Either the climate didn’t agree with them or they weren’t the sort to migrate nearly so far, winged or not. 

In that volume, sat with his back pressed to the warm stone of a great roaring fireplace, Geralt had finally found what he’d been seeking for a number of weeks.

 _“The Legendary Kelpie, a fey beast and one of the most rare of this type, is difficult to find and harder to kill without Steel. A Shape Changer, it is a wiley creature and impossible to capture as it has the ability to Reshape its Form and escape by means of any moving water. It is thought to be Intelligent, though no report has been made of it using Language and Knowing Words. Mostly it prefers the form of a handsome black horse, either a mare or a stallion, but you can Know It by the water plants in its mane and tail and its cloven hooves. Do not seek to ride the beast, as its ichor will bind you to it and it will summarily drown and consume you. Some say that the Legendary Kelpie can also assume the form of both raven and wolf. This Souther Beast prefers the water of the Southern Countries and has never been seen North of Mount Gorgon._ ”

Underneath the entry were two small drawings - one of a black horse with large, watery eyes and sharp teeth and the other had simply been a writhing mass of darkness with trailing tendrils and a tangle of water weeds. Geralt had stared at both before snapping the book shut again and putting it back where he’d found it. 

Perhaps he’d been lucky to get away with his life after all. Thankfully there’d been no sign of the creature after it had gifted him with its offerings of drowners and fish, so that was the end of it.

Rather, that had been the end of it until now.

With a grimace Geralt finished strapping on his swords and stepped out into the fog. At least it wasn’t raining, though that was hardly a comfort when the air itself was so wet that he felt as though he’d fallen straight into a bog the moment he closed the pub door behind him. It was so thick that it all but obscured the moon above, making every shape seem out of focus and too far away, even to his sharp eyes. He moved to the window the horse had been standing at and felt his heart sink.

Pressed into the wet mud were several deep, cloven hoofprints. The smell of water plants hung heavy in the air, somehow both fresh and stinking of decay and rot at the same time. He inhaled deeply, memorizing the smell. It mixed with the scent of wet horse and he labelled it ‘Kelpie’.

It was almost tempting to take a sip of cat to help him see, but the moon was enough to let him follow the tracks. They weren’t exactly hidden. Each one was deep and obvious, though they would likely fade long before morning - washed away by further rain and the recovery of the crushed grass the beast had trod. They led him away from the bar and the warm, safe candlelight, away from the village, and towards the engorged river. 

He paused near its banks, far enough away from the village now that all sound and trace of it was gone. There was only the soft rushing of the wind through the trees and the roar of the water as it crashed southward, dragging all of the snowmelt of the mountains with it. 

A black horse stood at its edge, submerged up to its knees in the frigid water. It tossed its head at him, letting its mane catch in the cold spring wind. 

“You’re a kelpie,” Geralt said aloud, keeping his hands away from his swords. 

The kelpie tossed its head again and turned to present its side to him. It was a magnificent creature. Even Geralt, with his limited knowledge of horses and what made them good or not, could see that. Its legs were long and well-muscled. Its neck arched and its head had a coy dip to it and its mane and tail looked glossy, without a tangle in sight. Even its back had a tempting slope to it, one that all but called out ‘ride me’. 

Geralt shook his head and took a step away. “I know what you are. You may have let me get away once as a favor, but I’m not some village idiot. I get too close and one of us won’t be waking up for breakfast in the morning.” 

The kelpie snorted wetly and danced in place, lifting up its legs high and letting them splash back into the river. Again it offered him its side, scooting a little closer to the bank of the river. 

Again Geralt took a step away. “Not happening. Go tear apart a few more drowners if you need some kind of entertainment. Leave me be. I helped you and we’re both still alive. That’s the end of it.” 

His medallion was buzzing against his sternum, crying out its silent warning. 

_Magic. Danger. Beware._

The kelpie whinied, the cry seeming much sharper than that of a normal horse. Geralt saw a flash of fangs as it drew back his lips and then it reared, lashing out at the air with its sharp hooves and dashed deep into the heart of the river. 

Geralt didn’t let himself breathe until the last trace of its tail had vanished. That was that. He’d set things straight and if the kelpie was indeed an intelligent creature, it wouldn’t look a gift Witcher in the mouth. 

He turned on his heel, eager to return to the pub and possibly a much stronger drink than ale.

A sound stopped him in his tracks before he’d taken more than a handful of steps. A splash, louder than the nonstop rushing of the river, and a soft hum. 

The Witcher turned, drawing his steel sword in one fluid movement. Silver was for monsters, but this one was different. This one was burned by steel. His eyes danced across the water, looking for the horse. The threat. Anything. 

But there was nothing. 

Nothing, that was, until he felt a soft touch against his unguarded back. 

Geralt jumped away, ready for the sensation of teeth digging into his neck, claws into his back, the feeling of pain and hot blood. He spun again, raising his sword for a downward slice and stopped, frozen in place.

There was no pain, no blood. 

There wasn’t even a threat. 

A woman stood behind him, her hand raised from where she’d pressed it against his back. She was nude, with long, curling dark hair cascading down her shoulders and over her breasts. There was mud on her feet and hands, but her fingers were long and delicate. 

“I - “ Geralt started, keeping his sword raised. A bruxa? No, this woman was far too curvaceous to be one of the lean blood-drinkers. Nor did she seem to have the long claws or a protruding tongue of a wraith. “Are you lost? It’s not safe out here.” 

The naked woman tilted her head at him, her hair obscuring her features as she stepped in closer. Geralt’s eyes fixed on the goosebumps that rose across her arms as she shivered. “Are you from the village? It’s alright, I’m a Witcher. I can take you back - help you find your family.” Realising that he was still brandishing his steel sword, he quickly slid it back into its sheath on his back and extended a hand, doing his best not to let his eyes stray where they shouldn’t. 

He’d already learned several times that most humans didn’t like to have the eyes of a Witcher linger on them for longer than absolutely necessary. 

Her hand was cold as she slid it into his, cold enough that he could feel it through his glove. “You’re like ice,” he commented. “Why are you out here?”

The woman hummed softly, her head lowered. She stepped in closer, seeking out his warmth, until she had plastered herself against his front. Perhaps a succubus? He hadn’t heard of one in these parts, but he’d heard of other wolves running across water spirits and the like further afield. 

His medallion was vibrating against his chest so hard that it was a miracle it didn’t fall off.

Geralt stepped away, trying to put some space between himself and the stranger, but she stepped with him. Her hand was still in his, gripping it tight, and even as he opened his mouth to cast a sign she surged up against him and pressed her lips to his.

She tasted strange, like dark things. Like there was water in his lungs. Salt on his tongue. Like secrets he shouldn’t know. 

His eyes snapped open, meeting her dark ones, and he _pushed._

The woman fell as the magic blasted her back and her back hit a tree several feet away, crumpling into the mud and roots at its base. Geralt watched a line of dark ichor run down a scratch on her arm as he scrubbed at his mouth. 

“Guess you don’t just change into wolves and ravens, huh?” He snapped, angry that he’d let himself get tricked this easily. Beautiful naked women didn’t just appear in the laps of Witchers. Ten times out of ten they were a monster and it didn’t end well for either party. “I told you - that’s the end of it. Get out of here before I change my mind.” He drew his steel sword again and used it to point at the river.

The woman raised her head and regarded him with the same eyes as the kelpie. She licked her lips, tasting him on them, and then looked down at herself and then back up at him. 

Geralt shook his head. Maybe it wasn’t intelligent after all? “No. I don’t want it. Leave!” He jabbed with the sword and took a menacing step forward, letting his expression morph into something more feral. Her nostrils flared and he knew what she could smell on him - the same thing he knew he always smelled like. A threat. Danger. Metal and blood. 

The kelpie’s eyes flickered towards the water and then back to him. It stood on unsteady legs and _changed._ Geralt watched as her hips narrowed and shoulders widened. The hair stayed the same - long and curly and dark, but now he was regarding a naked man with sharp cheekbones and lean muscles where there had been soft curves. The man dipped his head in the same way the hose had and smiled at him, running a hand down his sternum and over his belly. 

Beckoning. 

Geralt gave himself the luxury of closing his eyes for just a moment before leveling his sword at the kelpie. 

“I. Won’t. Ride. You.” He said, enunciating each word clearly. “Not as a horse, not as a woman, not as a man. I’ve read what you do with your prey and I’m not ready to drown yet. Leave or I’ll cut your head from your shoulders and tie it to my saddle.” 

It was halfway a bluff. He didn’t have a saddle or a horse to wear it. What he did have was a very sharp sword and the training to use it to cleave through bone and muscle. 

The kelpie looked at his sword and then up at him. It crooned softly, a noise of curiosity and longing. That sound nestled in Geralt’s brain and burned itself there. It would be easy, so easy. They were beautiful. His eyes rested on the kelpie’s hips, remembering how easily they had shifted their form. Like ice melting into water. 

“Go.” He said. “And don’t come back.” 

By the time he’d made it back to the pub, the majority of its occupants had made their way back to their homes and their beds. His cards still lay on the table, untouched. His drink was empty though. He slouched onto the bench with a sigh, letting his head rest on his fist. Did they make new hero cards when their image bearer died? Did the points pass on to someone more worthy of being known?

One thing was for certain - no-name Witchers who got themselves drowned by pretty kelpies most certainly weren’t worthy of gracing hero cards.

Not that he’d ever wanted to be a hero.

He reminded himself of that as he gathered his cards and climbed the stairs to his room, wet, cold, and very much alone. 

A raven croaked on the peak of the house across the road as it started to rain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so much fun, I stg. All kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!


	4. The Sensation of Being Hunted

It was extremely rare that Geralt felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. That he felt his body temperature increase just enough to feel the prickle of sweat on his forehead. That his eyes began to dart about his surroundings, cataloging every possible escape, every way that an enemy could approach him. 

It was rare that he felt the sensation of being hunted. 

More often it was he who prowled the woods and roads of the world, searching for the tracks of his prey. There was no bog deep enough nor cave dark enough to protect a monster from his blade when there was a contract on their head. With as few Witchers as there were left in the world, still his name had managed to spread among the intelligent monsters of the world.

‘ _Beware and hide well or the White Wolf will hunt you down.’_

Still, in the past few years Geralt had grown to know the sensation of being followed. Tracked. 

Hunted. 

He kept his eyes on the road ahead of him, fixed between Roach’s ears as she plodded along, blissfully unaware of the presence that grew closer to them with each passing moment. Geralt clenched his teeth, the muscles of his jaw aching as he strained his ears. Listening. Only once before had he had such an attunement to the presence of a single creature, and that had been an entirely different circumstance. Years ago he’d been able to escape his hunter for a time, through a combination of distance and using the landscape to his advantage. This time however, there seemed to be no tavern, no mountaintop, no obscure forest footpath that he could traverse where he would not eventually be found. 

Like winter melting into spring, so too would Jaskier appear once Geralt was on the Path after descending from Kaer Morhen. 

It wasn’t as though they’d ever verbally agreed to travel together - it just seemed to happen. Geralt would winter at the Witcher fortress in the far north, using the time to practice with his companions, trade stories of their hunts, and work on fixing the ever-crumbling walls. When spring had raised its head enough to melt the ice on the treacherous path down the mountain, the three of them would depart again, guiding their horses down the mountain to once again traverse the Path and all of its dangers.

And somehow, every damn year, Jaskier would appear as if summoned by magic and take his place at Roach’s side. 

Sometimes it was at an inn and he would find the bard performing from the corner, singing his latest songs about the conquests (sometimes a monster, sometimes a lady) of the White Wolf. Their eyes would meet across the room - blue to yellow - and Jaskier would smile with delight even as Geralt resigned himself to another year of nonstop chatter and lute strumming. 

Sometimes it would be during a hunt. Twice Geralt had been in the midst of battle - once with a rock troll and once with a water hag - and would look up to the sound of applause once his sword cleaved the monster’s head from its body. There would stand Jaskier, his travel pack at his side and his lute slung safely across his back, with a writing quill in one hand and a piece of parchment in the other as he hastily took notes of the details of the battle. 

Once they had both managed to reserve the same prostitute and Jaskier had walked in on Geralt in the middle of what was supposed to be a very pleasant night. After the bard had apologized profusely and backed out again, Geralt had found the mood entirely ruined and had joined Jaskier downstairs to drink themselves into a stupor. Out of Jaskier's pocket, of course. 

Still, more often than not they came across each other on the road. Usually one of them would be traveling north and the other south, or one east and the other west. Jaskier would cry out about the happy circumstance of their meeting and promptly change his heading to accompany Geralt to whatever backwater village he happened to be on his way to. Never did he suggest that Geralt would want to travel with him to whatever his heading was, and in fact he tended to be rather vague when Geralt would ask about what had been drawing him in that direction in the first place. 

“Oh, a wedding. Or a divorce. Maybe a funeral? One of those. Honestly I can’t be bothered to keep them straight since there’s so many events where a bard such as I,” and he would sweep off his hat - real or imaginary - and strike a deep bow, “is in high demand. But I’m more than happy to play in whatever inn we happen across first, because sod funerals. And weddings! They’re equally depressing.” And he would take up his usual position about six steps behind Roach and swing his lute in front of him. 

And so it would go.

This led Geralt to his current predicament - riding in the middle of nowhere where no reasonable person would ever be found for fear of either monsters, wild animals, or bandits - and straining his ears while listening for the first strains of lute music. 

“Morning Geralt!”

The sound he made wasn’t a scream. It could probably pass for a surprised grunt at best. Still, for him it was an admission of complete and utter failure. There sat Jaskier with his back against a tree that Geralt could have _sworn_ had been empty of bards during his last sweep of the landscape. His medallion hummed faintly against his chest as it always did when the bard was around - not so hard as to be alarming, but just enough to let Geralt know that there was magic fuckery about. 

“Fancy meeting you on this lonely stretch of road. I was just passing through myself and decided to take a break and have a bite of lunch. Have you eaten yet?” Jaskier bounded to his feet and walked over to where Roach was eyeing him with distrust. “Awww, new Roach? I was growing so attached to the last one. What happened to the old girl?” 

He reached out and let the young brown mare sniff at his fingers. 

“Got old,” Geralt grunted. “Left her with a family in Yantra and bought this one.” 

The new Roach was more flighty than the last one, but it was nothing a quick blast of _Axii_ couldn’t fix. Eventually she’d learn that spooking at the first sign of a forktail wasn’t worth her time, just like her predecessors. 

Jaskier made a slight of hand motion and pulled an apple slice out of his sleeve to bribe the mare with. “Well I think she’s lovely and I hope Roach the...fifth? Sixth? Will enjoy her retirement. Hopefully this one and I get on a bit better than the last!” 

“She tried to eat everyone’s hair - you aren’t special.” Geralt resigned himself to stopping for the moment since Jaskier’s things were spread out on the grass and he’d never hear the end of it if he rode off and left the bard to pack and catch up later. He’d learned that the hard way a few seasons back when Jaskier had taken it upon himself to talk Geralt’s ear about leaving him to a vicious pack of wolves for the next six months. If he never heard another thing about man-eating wolves for as long as he lived…

He swung off Roach (the sixth) and left her to investigate a patch of clover on the side of the path as he walked with Jaskier back to where he’d left his things.

“Excuse you, I’m not only special - I’m a _delight._ It’s your honor to be my chosen traveling companion. Do you know how many other Witchers would leap at the chance to wander with me through the bowels of the world while I write songs about their daring exploits? Witchers I might add, who aren’t quite as stingy with the details of said exploits when they don’t allow their _very special and dashing bard_ to accompany them?” 

“I give you plenty of details,” Geralt grunted as he sat down next to Jaskier’s lunch and plucked up the remaining half of a fire roasted trout. It was flaky and seasoned with nothing more than salt, but the skin was crunchy and fatty and he made a noise of enjoyment and he finished it.

The bard sat across from him on a traveling cape that had been spread out to keep him from getting grass stains on his vibrantly blue trousers. He was dressed as he always did - as if he was on his way to play for royalty. Where he got the coin for such elaborate frippery, Geralt had no idea. Either the bard was more well off than he let on and just had a fetish for slumming it, or he had some kind of well-off patron hidden in the wings to winter with. His money was on the second one. 

“Geralt, I hate to tell you this but ‘I killed it with my sword’ is hardly the stuff of ballads and legends. You don’t even specify which sword you used half of the time! What sort of bard would I be if I went into the nearest tavern and declared _I give you the next part in the tale of the White Wolf! He killed it with his sword!_ Thank you for coming, you’ve been a lovely crowd.” He sketched a semi-formal bow from his seated position. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re eating my lunch.”

Geralt leveled a fish bone that he’d been using to pick his teeth with at Jaskier. “Why are you here?”

“Did you just ignore everything I’ve been saying?”

“I don’t pay you by the word.”

“You don’t pay me at all, Geralt.” Jaskier puffed his cheeks up like an irate fish and blew out a noisy breath. “But if I _was_ paid by the word, I’d be about as rich as the King of Redania. Because not only am I _a fucking delight, Geralt,_ I am also one of the most eloquent and well-read people on the Continent and I have the college degree to prove it. Somewhere.” He looked around himself as if his hypothetical degree might suddenly appear and unroll itself in all of its officialness. “But to answer your question, I am here because my feet happened to be carrying me in this direction.”

“How is it that your feet always seem to carry you to wherever I am, even when I make a point of traveling the most unmarked roads in the area?” Geralt propped his head on his fist and inched his other hand a little closer to the heel of bread that Jaskier had been having with his fish. He promptly snatched it back again when Jaskier rewarded his sneaking with a sharp slap against his gauntlet-clad wrist.

“Stop eating my food, you brute. Don’t think I haven’t noticed all that lovely winter weight you’ve put on since I last graced you with my presence.” 

“Nobody’s feet carry them in a Witcher’s direction with as much accuracy as yours. Are you tracking me somehow?” Geralt paused and took a second to process what Jaskier had just said. “Did you just call me fat?” 

“You said it, not me. Some people like their Witchers with a little extra padding around their hips!” 

It was truly amazing how quickly Jaskier could gather up all of his worldly belongings and be halfway down the road before Geralt could retrieve Roach to chase him down and make him take back the libe. In the chase and the eventual less-than-heartfelt apology, Geralt entirely forgot that he’d been trying to figure out exactly how the bard kept hunting him down. 

So began another spring with Jaskier in his usual spot - six steps behind Roach - and smiling as his fingers began to dance across his lute strings. 

~ * * * ~

Geralt had been a Witcher for six years and had lost count of how many scars he had. He’d made it to twenty two before a battle with a wraith hadn’t gone very well and it had beaten the shit out of him with its lantern for more than an hour before he’d managed to find its corpse and set it ablaze. The dozens of scratches, cuts, and bruises the damn specter had left behind hadn’t been nearly worth the meager pay that had been his reward for dispelling it and he’d been sore for nearly a week afterwards. 

The black wolf that was walking behind him whined softly. 

“I’m not talking to you,” Geralt snapped as he hefted the half-melted head of the harpy matriarch higher over his shoulder. “I’ll be lucky if I get paid at all after the shit you pulled.” 

The wolf made a bubbling, mournful sound that had no business coming out of a canine’s mouth and Geralt shuddered. 

So much for his mighty proclamation. ‘Go and don’t come back’ had lasted for approximately three days before the kelpie made its next appearance, dropping a fish on his head in the form of a black hawk and then proceeding to follow him for the rest of the day. The next day it had been a forest cat, following the trail he walked from the shadows of the trees. The next it had been a black stag with dripping antlers. Then a beautiful maiden who had approached his campfire and danced for him, letting the sparks drift around her weed-laced black hair. 

Chasing the monster with his sword had only been enough to drive it off for a handful of hours at a time. Often it would simply melt away into a pool of bubbling noxious ichor and then reform itself into a raven that would follow him from outside of sword range.

It was enough to drive a Witcher to drink. 

Well, drink more. 

“I neither need nor want your help with my hunts,” he continued, looking over his shoulder so that the kelpie knew that he was addressing it. “You’re a liability and a distraction.” 

It might not have understood his words, but like most semi-intelligent creatures it understood by his tone that he was cross. The wolf ducked its head and avoided making eye contact, its ears lying flush against its skull and its tail tucked as it prowled in his footsteps - the very picture of a hound that had been scolded by its master. Sadly this particular hound was still leaving a trail of harpy gore even though the battle had taken place more than an hour ago. 

For months it had followed him, only seeming to vanish when his travels took him too far from the water. It had grown bad enough that Geralt had begun to feel eyes on him at all times, even when he knew that there was no way for the kelpie to be there constantly. It needed to take breaks from his side to hunt or to find somewhere to slumber - neither of them seemed to trust the other enough to sleep in their presence. No doubt the kelpie knew that the temptation to run it through with a sword might be too much for Geralt, and Geralt knew that sleeping near running water was nearly a death wish with a kelpie around. 

Still, they’d managed to survive without killing each other for this long. That had to be some sort of record, though Geralt doubted that sort of thing was kept track of in Kaer Morhen’s log books. 

The wolf waited on the outskirts of the village, blending with the long shadows while Geralt dragged his black sludge-covered harpy head in front of the village elders. They paid, though begrudgingly, and Geralt took a pass on keeping the trophy. There were enough black stains on his clothes and armor already without adding the gunk of the harpy head to the mix. Luckily the stuff seemed to come off with nothing more than water, but once it soaked in and dried it was nearly impossible to remove. 

Geralt stepped outside and took a deep, bracing breath. The air was cold and his breath plumed in front of him as he scanned the sky over the roofs of the small huts. Smoke was rising from nearly every chimney as their occupants sought to keep the oncoming winter chill from penetrating too deeply. It was only late fall now and there had already been more than one overnight snow blown through. This winter would be harsh. Had he been at all intelligent, he would have turned his footsteps north weeks ago and begun the track back towards the mountains. 

Not this year. 

Not with the kelpie following him - a monster that could be a threat to his brothers and the next batch of trainees. Until he found a way to rid himself of the creature permanently, there was a wall between him and Kaer Morhen. 

Would anyone miss him over the winter? 

Eskel would recommend he lop the beasts head off and have done with it. Vesemir would box his ears for letting it get to this point in the first place. Coën would probably just laugh. 

But they hadn’t seen what Geralt had - the single eye rolling in a tortured, burned skull. The way the kelpie’s eyes glittered in the firelight, burning with mirth and happiness. The way it bounded with joy as it snapped at harpy tail feathers. 

His sword was good to threaten it with when he thought he might be growing too fond, but Geralt knew that it was unlikely that it would ever find the kelpie’s neck without one hell of an incentive. No, better to put distance between them and hope that it lost interest in him. Kelpies were southern beasts, preferring the deep swamps and boggy coasts to the forest and fast-moving streams of Velen. Eventually it would tire of him and move back to better hunting. 

Geralt’s black-flecked boots turned south. There would be no warm, cozy keep for him this year. Best to start the long walk to the warmer climates early and try to beat the worst of the snow. Perhaps he’d be able to scrounge enough coin together to afford a cheap horse to aid him on his travels. 

The Witcher left town.

The black wolf and the snows followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter this time, but we're starting to build up a bit of a relationship! I laughed my way through most of this one, I'll admit. 
> 
> I absolutely adore every comment and kudo! Y'all are the best. 
> 
> Want to find me? I'm @MJWineAunt on Twitter!

**Author's Note:**

> So let's see how this goes, y'all.


End file.
